


barba à papa

by untilwefallinlove



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Angst, Childhood Sweethearts, Coming of Age, F/M, Fluff, Light Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 14:17:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19443136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untilwefallinlove/pseuds/untilwefallinlove
Summary: The sky behind him is sherbert orange, melted dreamsicle, and the tang of lemon as the sun glides lazily beneath the horizon of Brooklyn. Blue moon, soft and overarching, begins to bloom in the sky as you keep kissing him on your front step.Snapshots of your life growing up alongside Bucky Barnes in the 1930s and 40s.





	barba à papa

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone!! this fic was actually for @ cametobuyplums writing challenge on tumblr!! my prompt was "barba à papa" which means cotton candy in French! I had a lot of fun with this even though it became angstier and longer than i intended lmao
> 
> please let me know what you think!! 
> 
> come say hi on tumblr @ until-we-fall-in-love

You’re five when you tear your favorite, cotton candy pink dress on your walk home from school, skidding your knees until dark blood blooms on the edges of the pink fabric like flowers opening against a rosy sky. You start crying, big, hiccupping tears because you know your mama will be real angry about the tear. Your knees hurt, too, and there are pebbles in the palms of your small hands. But it's your favorite dress and you know you probably won’t get another. 

Bucky’s there, though, the neighbor boy who's two years older than you and walks you to and from the schoolhouse with his friend, Stevie. He’s only seven, but he’s got three younger sisters so he knows exactly how to ease you back up onto your wobbling feet. “You’re okay!” He quickly starts to say, “It’s okay, it’s just a scratch!” And he tries to smooth out your dress, brush off your little palms. Small, clumsy hands push your hair away from your tear-damp cheeks, the way he sees his own mom do with his baby sisters when they take a fall. Your nose is running, making it hard to breathe. 

“It’s my favorite dress,” You cry, taking shuddering breaths as your little fists latch onto the sleeves of his patched-up shirt. “My mama’s gonna be so mad,” You gasp, more worried about her than the blood that races down your shins in crimson ribbons. 

“Stevie, you got something I can wipe her knees with?” Bucky asks over his shoulder before he turns back to you and he tries to wipe your tears again, little fingers rough and stumbling but you don’t care. “I’m sure your mama can fix it. Or mine or Stevie’s could, too.” He tries to comfort you as Steve rummages through his little, blue backpack. 

He pulls out a crumpled napkin and hands it over to Bucky, who quickly, messily tries to wipe away the blood. Fix the damage done. You sniffle at him, cheeks blotchy and pink. 

“C’mon,” Bucky says, taking your little hand in his, “We’ll get you home.” 

And he takes you home, trying to cheer you up the entire way until you laugh through tears. 

* * *

You’re nine when you and Steve pick a fight with a twelve year old boy that’s been picking on some of the younger kids on the schoolyard. It ain’t right, you and Steve agree, just before following him right into trouble. But it doesn’t last long because the boy catches Steve in a hit to his jaw that sends his small, frail body to the ground in a heap. 

Your mouth pops open, worry tracing your features before anger flickers through you, bright and quick, for this bully. You watch Steve take in a few ragged, rattling breaths and you move towards him, but don’t get far. 

You get shoved by the older boy, right onto the hard cement before his greedy, chubby fingers yank the cotton candy, softly pink ribbon right from your hair just to be mean. You yelp, clawing at his hand as it’s swiped away. 

It’s Bucky that steals it back, growing a little lanky at eleven, but lighter on his feet than this bully. He scarcely dodges a sloppy punch from the other boy before taking his own shot, knuckles splitting across the bully’s mouth. 

And the bully starts crying and screaming real loud, all blubbering and wailing when he touches his fingers to his lips and they come way with blood. He runs to tell a teacher. 

“Jeeze, what the hell did you two get yourself into?” 

He’s been saying  _ hell  _ and  _ damn  _ lately to sound grown up but you got scolded by your ma when you tried it. She said it was no way for  _ young ladies  _ to speak. 

Bucky hoists you up, looking over you, making sure you’re okay. He pushes your hair from your face, sees no injury before crouching beside Steve. 

“You okay, pal?” Bucky asks and you drop to your knees beside him, gravel biting into the soft skin there.

“Stevie?” You ask, laying a hand on his back. 

Steve turns his face to the both of you, shows you the fat, bloody lip that’s begun to run red down his chin. He smiles all shaky and crooked, “Never been better, Buck.” 

“Oh Christ, Steve.” Bucky swears again and shifts to try and help him up. You stand, sliding one of Steve’s thin arms around your shoulders to help lift him. Bucky supports his other side; Steve looks dazed and wobbly, like a newborn lamb taking shaky steps.

You pick your head up, blowing hair from your eyes just as you see a teacher marching out to the three of you, looking sour and angry. You gulp. Oh, you’re in  _ real  _ trouble now. 

Which is how the three of you end up in the principal’s office, knees knocking against each other as you sit and wait. Steve’s got an ice pack to his mouth but there’s blood on his blue shirt. 

You know you’ll all at least get detentions for this. Maybe worse. Bucky will probably get the worst punishment, despite deserving it the least. Guilt gnaws at you, settles into the pit of your stomach alongside the worry you feel for when your mama finds out what you’ve done. 

But Bucky nudges you with an elbow and you glance over at him, watch as he uncurls his fist to reveal your ribbon, rumpled and delicate looking in his hand. You’d almost forgotten about it and you can’t help the soft smile that touches your lips, wobbly because you think Bucky’s a little too good after all the trouble you’ve caused him now. 

Gently, you slide it from his hand and into yours, your fingers brushing his palm. “Thank you, Bucky,” You murmur, looking at him with wide, sweet eyes. 

Bucky smiles back, boyish and crooked and young. “‘Course,” He says back, as if he’d do anything for you. 

Looking at him, you think he just might. 

* * *

You’re twelve and being forced to grow up too quickly, caught somewhere between being a young woman and clinging to girlhood. Everyone is treating you differently, looking at you differently, too. Steve doesn’t. But he’s been getting sick lately, bedridden and fragile looking, swearing to you that he’s alright. 

You know he isn’t, but you tell him  _ of course you are,  _ anyways. 

Bucky doesn’t treat you much differently, but there is a strange shift.

You clamber out onto his fire escape with him as the evening dips into night, the last rays of the sun falling over all of Brooklyn in gentle gold and dainty, cotton-candy pink and blue, all swirling into the lullaby violet of an oncoming night sky. The city doesn’t sleep, the world below you full of life; people shouting, distant jazz music that slides through the streets, kids playing in the alley below as they try to drink up the last of the day, and the tired, working people who drag their feet home with crooked arches in their backs. 

The wind lifts your hair from your shoulders, tickles your collar bones. 

Bucky pulls out a cigarette- all the boys his age are smoking them- lights it with a little spark and takes a slow drag. 

He’s got too much weighing on his shoulders, the small Atlas that he is. Three sisters to worry about, a single mother, trying to nurse Steve back to health, and you know it’s  _ hard times  _ because the adults always say it. You know he worries and fusses. But he’s just a boy still, not quite a man to you, yet. 

He likes to be quiet with you sometimes, his shoulder brushing yours as the sun falls over him, eyes alight and soft and contemplative. 

But tonight, he says, pulling the cigarette from his lips, “You know, my ma thinks we’re gonna get married. Mrs. Rogers does,too.” 

This isn’t new to you; your own parents tease you about Bucky. They have since you were small, always attached to him, clinging to the sleeves of his shirt. But for some reason, this time it makes you flush. There’s a shift in the way he looks at you, a little softer, differently. Something inside of you unfurls slow and tentatively. You can’t name it but it makes you warm and vulnerable. 

“Yeah,” You exhale, “My parents think so, too.” 

He doesn’t quite respond; there’s no more whines of  _ ew, no way! Girls are gross! Boys have cooties!  _ That used to cloud your childhood. Now it’s just you and him and the words that settle between you like a chaperoning third. 

When he doesn’t respond at all, you reach over and pluck the cigarette from his fingers. His eyebrow quirks upward, “What are you--”

And you try and take a drag, just the way he always does. But you’re not expecting the way it burns and unfurls down your throat. You choke, sputter, then begin coughing as if you’re trying to get rid of your own lung. 

Bucky laughs, taking the cigarette back and you try and hit his shoulder but your eyes are watering, still coughing. You have no idea how he can smoke that--

But he puts his hand, growing and soft, on your back, rubbing in gentle circles until you can settle down. He teases you about it until the candy colored sky gives way to the blue of the night, until all that’s heard on the streets is the slow, faint crooning of jazz and the occasional car peatering past on the streets below. 

* * *

You’re fifteen and wide-eyed about the growing world ahead of you, curious and a little too innocent. You haven’t quite grown into yourself yet, awkward and fussing about things you never used to. 

Bucky and Steve have started to call you  _ doll  _ and  _ dame  _ and  _ baby.  _ They get all protective when other boys look at you now. Steve’s started fights over it, gotten black eyes and broken noses because he guards you a little too closely. Bucky’s started to bring girls around; you take to them well enough. You like to tell them embarrassing stories from when Bucky was young, they laugh and indulge you. One did your makeup once. 

You  _ know  _ they’re  _ kind of  _ his girlfriends because Stevie tells you. Or complains to you about it. 

But you still find yourself asking Bucky one night, both of you sitting too close on his old fire escape, “Have you ever kissed anyone, Bucky?” 

And he barks out a slight, surprised laugh. Your cheeks turn pink. He answers, “Yeah, sweetheart, I’ve kissed someone before.” And he cocks his head, looking a little older, nearly a man, as he studies you a moment. And then he asks, “Have  _ you?”  _

You shake your head, quick, “No!” And your cheeks warm further, burning up. You become sheepish, “Should I have?” 

Bucky bites his lip to keep from smiling at how flustered you’ve gotten, but he shrugs lightly. “If you want to, I guess.” 

“Has Stevie?” You press, tentative but too curious. 

Bucky eyes you again, but he nods, “Yeah, Stevie has, too.”

“As many as you?” 

He laughs again, full and warm and curling around you in a way that makes your heart stutters. 

“No,” He shakes his head, “Not as many as me.” 

He looks at you then, blue eyes glittering, one corner of his lips hitched up into the smile you’re so familiar with. He looks handsome, you realize, and you suddenly understand why the other girls coo and gush over him. You think about the girls he brings around, the way he holds their hands or puts his arm around their shoulders. You’re sure he kisses them and you--

You want him to treat you that way, too. 

And before you can think, you ask, “Would you kiss me?” 

His brows shoot up, lips parting slightly, “I--” He shakes his head, “No, I can’t.” He tells you and your heart drops into the pit of your stomach, your eyes suddenly swimming, heat welling up uncomfortably to prickle at your ears and neck.  _ Why would you ask that?  _ You mourn, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of your blouse. 

Have you ruined everything? 

“Sorry,” You mutter, move to stand in a jerky, sharp movement. You want to leave, you want to leave and bury your face in your pillow and scream and cry and never see his face again. 

But Bucky snags your small wrist, catches you quick, “Hey,” He hushes, “Slow down.” And he tugs at you, until you give way and sink down onto your knees in front of him. You’re almost in his lap, too close, and you can feel him looking at you. But you’ve averted your eyes, turned your face from him and the delicate rays of sun. You’ve never felt so strange being so near to him until now. 

“It’s okay, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I was being  _ stupid--”  _

“You’re too young, is all.” 

Your eyes snap back to his, brows furrowing, “I’m only two years younger than you.” You protest. 

“I know,” He says, calmer than you feel, his hand, grown so big, still wrapped around your wrist. Your pulse flutters, hummingbird wings beating beneath the rough skin of his palm. But he shakes his head again slightly, “But you’re still-- you’re little to me.” 

You swallow, look away from him again, unable to face him this near. You feel young, you realize, inexperienced and unsure with a boy two years older than you. You feel moldable and thin, cotton-candy heart and sugar-crushed feelings that are too easy to bend and shape and melt. The eagerness to impress him is caught in your chest and it’s  _ always _ been there but now it’s  _ different.  _ Changed. Like you, like him. Sticky sweet with a touch of desire. Longing. 

He takes your chin between his fingers with his free hand, urges you to look at him. “It’s not you.” He promises, soft and reverent. You believe him. And he gives you a slight smile now, tipping your chin up, “Just grow a little and then I’ll kiss you, if it’s still what you want.” 

And he lets you go, lets you grow up untouched and seeking. 

* * *

True to his word, Bucky kisses you on the eve of your twenty-second birthday in the soft dark of your living room once everyone has left. 

He swears you taste like pink vanilla, cotton candy girl, the sweet warmth of your lips as he lays you out on the couch beneath him. You tremble soft and cling to him, small hands latching onto his patched up shirt, and he’s delicate and undeserving. 

It doesn’t feel like a sin when he moves down the line of your body, lips gentle and warm. He parts your legs, kisses soft against the skin of your hips, his hands now large and rough cradle your thighs. He settles between your legs as if he belongs there. 

You gasp, squirm, bury your fingers in his dark hair to try and ground yourself. You open for him, timid and with fluttering lashes as the warmth of his mouth touches your center. 

You jolt at the heat and a broken cry falls from your lips, hips arching and he tightens his hold on you, hushing you soft. “Relax,” He cooes, rubbing his cheek against the sensitive, soft part of your inner thigh. His eyes find yours in the darkness, lower his lips down to where you need him most and you exhale shakily.

He takes you apart slowly, as if you have eternity to lay with your body bared to him and the sweet darkness. And after you’ve fallen apart for him, reached a peak and tumbled over with a delicate cry, he’d crawled back up your body and greedily, eagerly, you’d kissed and twined around him. Tasted yourself on his lips, foreign and strange but warming you from the inside out. 

You squirm, try to push your hips up into his, desperate for something you’ve never experienced. But he tells you, low and soft against your cheek, “Slow down, sugar.” And stills your hips with a broad palm. 

He kisses you leisurely, soothes you until all he does is hold you, determined to keep you by his heart, to take his time with you. There is a lot that Bucky has rushed, but you are not one he wants to add to that list. He isn’t quite sure he’s man enough, yet, isn’t sure he deserves you but all he  _ does  _ know is that he feels like he's holding the world with you in his arms. As if the sun rose and fell inside of him when he holds you. 

Fearful of losing you, of losing whatever it is that glimmers and burns between you two, that night is not mentioned again. 

You continue as friends, scared to push at each other, to drastically change all that you have and know. 

Regardless, nights like those happen again, few and far between, you both regard them as sacred and secret. Keep them bottled to your chest, precious and soft in their memories even as time goes on.

* * *

Bucky is twenty-six and you are twenty-four when he receives the fateful, damning letter that requests his life for his country. 

“I’m comin’ with you.” Steve declares and your heart has dropped like a stone, down, heavy and hard into the pit of your stomach. 

“C’mon Stevie, you can’t leave me, too.” You try to joke but it comes out flat and wobbly. 

Steve swallows, looks away, some of that fury in his blue eyes dim.

Bucky looks older, you realize, like a man who's lived a life with a little too much weight on his shoulders, the Atlas that he is. He is quiet, holding the letter that wavers in his hand, paper soft and thin, like the wispy, cotton candy clouds outside his window. Morning pushes forward. Time pushes forward. The world keeps turning even if you feel yours has stopped.

He has two weeks until he gets his orders. Once you’d felt you’d have a lifetime with Bucky now becomes two weeks.

He promises you the best summer for what he has left; just like when you were kids.

* * *

On a sticky hot, hazy sort of day Bucky demands you and Steve go to Coney Island with him. There’s little you’ll deny him, and though Steve protests about it, he still tags along anyways. 

Steve throws up on the Cyclone not long into the day, though, face woozy and Bucky laughs when he shouldn’t as you both try and hold him up afterwards. You get him water and coo over him, playfully scolding Bucky who can’t get a sincere apology out without laughing like a schoolboy. 

“You’re a jerk, Buck.” Steve whines pitifully, cheeks flushed as he dry heaves into a small bag you’d found him after the ride. You rub his back, brush his blond hair from his face. 

Bucky looks at you over Steve’s shoulder, and you add, “He’s right.” But there’s a slight twist to your lips. 

“I’m sorry, pal, how was I supposed to know you’d hurl on it?” Bucky asks but he’s still smiling and Steve’s not really mad. You feel like a kid again, stuck to your two best friends, except Bucky looks at you differently now. 

After Steve has kept cool water down, you continue walking around, letting the sun fall onto your skin, warming you from the outside in. Bucky’s been dropping his arm over your shoulders, sliding his hand to the small of your back as you walk, ducking his head by your ear the way he does on the nights neither of you talk about. 

You don’t care, even if you should; Steve’s looking at you two a little strangely, perhaps wondering when your relationship shifted. And in truth, its happened so gradually and so simply that you aren’t quite sure, either. 

Bucky buys you cotton candy, the soft sugar that melts the moment it hits your tongue. It’s sticky and sweet around your lips, especially later, when Steve’s gone home and Bucky walks you home, kisses you goodnight on your doorstep. 

He cradles your cheek, tongue gliding along your bottom lip, tasting sweetness and candy. The sky behind him is sherbert orange, melted dreamsicle, and the tang of lemon as the sun glides lazily beneath the horizon of Brooklyn. Blue moon, soft and overarcing, begins to bloom in the sky as you keep kissing him on your front step. You want to go fast and hard, desperate and needy but he forces you slow with his lips, the gentle demand making you syrupy and gooey beneath his palms. 

When he breaks away, he kisses your cheek, innocent and boyish before pulling away from you. You want to invite him in, but he steps away, respectful and gentlemanly. 

Some nights you wished he treated you like he treats other girls, kissing them hard, quick, messy. But not you, never you. 

“Goodnight, doll.” He says with a smile that makes your heart ache. 

“Goodnight, Bucky.” You say, a little breathless, watch as he walks away, whistling a gentle tune to himself with the last rays of light bathing him in gold. 

It sounds familiar, like the jazz that slipped through the city streets when you were young and tucked away on his fire escape. 

* * *

The last night that Bucky is in Brooklyn, he goes out with Steve, tries to wrangle him on a date for the final time. It’s bittersweet as he tries to pretend this is only one more normal day in his life. He promises to see you after, so you doze on the couch, in and out of a too-light sleep. All you can think about is seeing Bucky off tomorrow. 

You don’t hear him enter, only his hand on your shoulder, urging you awake, “Wake up, doll, it’s me.” And you blink up at him. He’s in his uniform still, hat crooked atop his head and you take him in. The man he’s become from the boy you once knew. 

You sit up, “You and Steve have fun?” You ask, rubbing at your eyes. 

“Stevie took off early. I danced a little, but I wanted to see you.” He says, brushing your hair from your face, tender and soft. 

You only have a moment to lean into his touch before he straightens up, moves to the record player in the connected kitchen. You hear him rustle around, find the right track before honey-slow jazz seeps out and fills your apartment. 

“I still want to dance. Will you dance with me, sweetheart?” He asks, taking his hat off and tossing it onto a kitchen counter. There’s little you deny him, so you find yourself stepping into his arms. 

There is no coyness tonight, you press yourself up against him, fit your body to his as he holds you tight and sways. Your apartment is dim and small, pressing you closer together, as if you could be the only two in the world left. You lay your head to his chest, commit his heartbeat to memory. 

One song dips into another, you’re still holding onto each other. Too tight, maybe, trying to keep out tomorrow and hold fiercely onto today. 

You lift your head to look up at him, to study his face but the moment you do, he leans down to press his lips to yours. It’s gentle at first but something inside him pulls taut before  _ breaking  _ because between one moment and the next, you’re being lifted onto the kitchen counter and his lips have become more demanding. 

You can’t help the gasp, can’t help the way you arch and squirm against him, desperate for him. How long have you been this desperate for him? Your hands disappear into his hair, tug and pull as if you could somehow get him closer. 

“Remember how everyone always said we’d get married?” He asks against your mouth, warm and voice rough. His eyes are half-lidded, almost sleepy but burning, jaded blue. 

Your heart nearly stops.

“Yeah,” You say cautiously, eyeing him, “What are you getting at, Bucky?” 

His lips drop to your neck, they seal over a tender spot below your ear, make your back arch into him. You hook a calf over his waist, pull his hips snug to yours. He almost whines against your neck, ruts into you like a teenager, half-wild and tenderly desperate. 

“Just that I wanna marry you, sweetheart.” He breathes and your heart  _ does  _ stop this time. You almost push him away, ask if he’s being serious, if he’s lost his mind but you can’t bring yourself to. 

“Are you proposing?” You ask, pulling away so you can look at his face. His nose runs along the plain of your cheek. 

“Not officially,” He murmurs, “But I--” He pauses, presses a kiss to your heated cheeks, “Would you wait for me, doll? If I asked you to?” 

You exhale shaky, your fingers curling into his hair, into his uniform jacket. Would you? You bite your lip, watch his eyes trace the movement with contained heat. It burns you, makes you squirm. Would you? 

“Yes,” You breathe before you can stop yourself but the answer is from somewhere deep and honest and base inside of you. It bubbles out before you can stop it. Has there ever been anyone else but him? Did you ever have any doubt? “Yes, Bucky, I’d wait for you if you asked.” You tell him softly, searching his face, eyes seeking and burning. 

“Then that’s what I’m asking, honey,” He rumbles, voice low, full of promise just before he kisses you on your open mouth. 

And there’s no preamble tonight, no soothing and slowing you, there’s nothing but the heavy reminder that tonight is your last night with him in a long, long time and the choiceless hope in what he’s just asked of you. 

He gets your blouse half undone, let’s your breast spill from the tops of your cotton candy pink brassiere, which he takes one look at and  _ groans _ into the hollow of your throat, as if you  _ ruin  _ him, as if you’ve  _ wrecked _ him. 

But then he’s gotten your skirt off, left it forgotten and misplaced on your kitchen floor. He pushes your panties to the side then, pulling you forward and easing into you as his lips move against yours. He burns and stretches sweet and perfectly--

It isn’t your first time but it feels a little like the last. 

You mewl, kitten soft and broken, clinging to his broad shoulders. He holds you as if you’re precious, rolls his hips in a way that makes your head tip back. His nose skims the line of your neck, lips sealing there, leaving red bloomed bruises to be remembered by. 

You won’t last long; as if the tether between the two of you has been made molten and warm from over the years, simmered with all your want and love of him . He fits in you perfectly. 

And he tells you so, “Babydoll, you’re everything.” He gruffs, “My perfect girl,  _ Christ--  _ you feel so good.” His fingers dig lavender bruises into your hips, and you feel fragile and breakable in the best way possible. Too vulnerable and split open by him, the soft, sugar-sweet part of your heart bared to him.

“I love you,” You half gasp as he sinks deeper.

A moan is pulled from the depths of him, broken and ragged. “Say it again, baby, please,” He begs, lips wet and warm and open against your cheek.

“ _ Fuck,” _ You choke, “I love you--  _ I love you.”  _

It should take more than that, but it doesn’t, and the tension inside of you bursts outward in a flare of heat and desperation. You fall apart, body rippling, half-sobbing against Bucky’s shoulder. 

He doesn’t last much longer, pulling out and spilling onto your thighs, sticky mess in the afterglow as he nuzzles and kisses and rubs strong hands over you. He kisses your cheek, nose running gently against your jaw.

And he gives you a smile, lopsided and sweet, “I swear I’ll marry ya when I get back.” He promises and it  _ hurts  _ to hear him say just as much as it soothes you. 

You cup his face between your hands, pull him towards you to kiss hard and keep close. “Just come back to me, okay?” You breathe, pushing your forehead into his.

All he does is smile back boyish and crooked and young. You’re tugged back into your memories of him, growing up beside you, always looking out for you; the tender and delicate type of love that leaves you humming and open, unfurling beneath his gaze, cotton candy soft. You cannot remember when you started loving him this way, only that you can’t imagine ever not loving him now. 

He tells you “‘Of course,” As if he’d do anything for you. 

And looking at him, you think he just might. 


End file.
